And I Would Like To Call It Beauty
by payroo
Summary: She was not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, Alistair thought. He wasn’t sure when she started becoming beautiful. Fem!Tabris/Alistair, fairly pointless fluffy oneshot.


She was not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, Alistair thought. Despite barely coming up to his shoulder, she emanated waves of viciousness that practically rolled off her. He first noticed the permanent scowl that twisted her features, but even without the scowl her face was unremarkable. Everything about her was too sharp, from her pointy nose to her bony chin to her eyebrows that formed an angry 'v' on her forehead. Alistair didn't mean to be racist, but he thought the derogatory 'knife-ears' could be stretched to 'knife-face' to describe her.

She wasn't some scrawny little thing either. She had _muscles_. As in biceps. And triceps. And whatever other ceps and strings made up those frightening shapes that rippled under her skin. She easily carried two full-size weapons into battle, and he had seen her cleave through solid armor even with her off hand. Once Zevran had asked her how an alienage elf had got to be so bulky, to which she just grinned. A horrid grin, all teeth and malice and wicked humor. Alistair swore even her teeth were pointy.

He wasn't sure when she started becoming beautiful.

Maybe it was when she agreed to help the village of Redcliffe, despite the delay imposed on their quest. Sten and Morrigan had made irritated little noises, but a glare from her had shut them up. That day Alistair realized that her eyes were the same grey as the sky had been when Duncan saved him from the Chantry. Even if said eyes were narrowed into terrifying slivers.

Or perhaps it was when she had decided not to kill Connor or sacrifice Isolde but journey to the Circle Tower instead. She had stood motionless and silent while Teagan and Jowan had listed all their options to her. Her eyebrows were furrowed lower than ever and Alistair had been despondent; he was sure that she would choose the most efficient and violent route. But then she announced that the child should not suffer for the idiocy of his mother and that they would have to journey to the Circle anyway for a treaty and there would be no further arguments, thank-you-very-much-Morrigan-and-Sten. He had blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. She elbowed him in the ribs and he felt the impact, even through his splintmail.

"What are you standing about for? We don't have time to waste. Let's go," she had said, and stomped out the castle doors, not looking back to see if her stunned companions were following her. He had gaped at the back of her head, noticing for the first time that her hair, chopped short at the base of her neck, was red like the cliffs of Redcliffe when the sun cast its final lazy beams over the hills.

By the time they were in Orzammar he had admitted to himself that perhaps she was at least above average in terms of looks. After all, the average woman didn't have her proud carriage, her easy confidence as she moved. But when she entered the Provings, and he got the chance for once to dedicate all his attention to _watching_ her, he found himself wondering how he could have ever thought she was ugly, as her blades flashed with brutal speed and descended with dizzying force. She had little of Zevran's finesse, less of Leliana's grace, but she was exhilarating to watch. Her dragonbone plate seemed to weigh nothing from the way her body contorted and twisted, darted and leaped throughout her battles, but Alistair knew from experience how heavy her massive armor was. It had originally been sized for a human male, but Alistair could barely move without his muscles screaming in the armor and so they had taken it to Wade to have it resized. It had been embarrassing at the time, but Alistair felt no shame now as he watched her floor a brutish looking dwarf with a single blow. He knew, even so, she was holding back, as she would have split the dwarf in two had she been meaning to kill.

She raised her two swords when her victory was declared, and as the crowds cheered with bloodlust she caught his eyes and flashed him one of her feral grins, teeth glinting even in the dull reddish light of the arena. Something burned bright and fierce and proud inside of him, and he smiled back down at her. He barely even noticed how pointy her teeth were.

And then one day she had sauntered over to his spot by the campfire, a bit deflated from her usual self. The corners of her mouth were twisted into an odd little half-smile, and if Alistair hadn't known who she was, what a powerful warrior she was, he would have sworn she looked sheepish. Then his mother's amulet was in his trembling hands, and she was as radiant in his eyes as all the tales said Andraste had been in the eyes of the Maker.

When he had the idea to give her that ridiculous rose, he knew he was certifiably insane. She was all power and speed, strength and confidence, and he was giving her a wilted plant.

She looked at the rose, prodded at its damask petals and gave it a cursory sniff. Her grey eyes shot up back to his face.

"You think of me as a delicate flower?" And his stomach had seized, and he had nearly died on the spot of mortification until he saw the smile playing on her lips, wicked humor but no malice in sight.

"I couldn't find any roses made of steel," he said, stupidly, and the smile reached her eyes, and he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he told her so.

And then he stopped talking, because her calloused hands had pulled his face to hers and her chapped lips were crushed against his and Maker, he was a lucky man.


End file.
